dresses (I’d have to buy some new ones), gala dinners and sparkly things. Really, given the chance, I could be pathetically shallow.
India leapt up and wrapped her arms around Mum’s shoulders.
‘Mum, can I borrow your turquoise evening bag, the one with the beads?’ she wheedled.
You see? She was no better. I was about to ask the same thing. Perhaps we still had something in common after all?
The Wet Spot
Dry Gin, Apricot Brandy, Elderflower Liqueur, Apple Juice, Lemon Juice
Dad took us to Heathrow very early on September 23rd.
By then I had parked all my reservations and prejudices about joining a boat full of old crocks with my wedding-obsessed sister, especially after Mum gave me a pretty stern talking-to about being the bigger person, making allowances, blah blah blah. Yes, Mum, okay. So I did my best to think positively. I was firing on all cylinders and ready to go. I mean, if nothing else, we were going to spend a few hours in an airport lounge, complete with free champagne and magazines, before flying to New York. As far as holidays went, this was a result.
After a tearful farewell dinner with Jerry the previous night, India, burdened with a hangover, had spent most of the car journey convincing herself our flight would crash into the Queen Mother Reservoir shortly after take-off, or – failing that – into the Atlantic, where our remains would never be discovered. She’d always been a bit dramatic when it came to air travel. No idea where she got it from, what with our parents spending more time in the air than on the ground these days.
Dad eventually reassured her by promising that if anything happened he and Mum would throw a wreath over the probable crash site and give Jerry the insurance money. There had then been a mild argument about whether Jerry should get my insurance payout too. Once we had agreed Mum and Dad would get my bit and put it towards a world cruise, India calmed down and got into the spirit of things, which was good as we were just coming up to departures and I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. Surprisingly, the subject of the wedding hadn’t come up once so far. I was just hoping it would stay that way …
Dad hated lengthy farewells at airports because they tended to make him sentimental, or maybe just jealous? I couldn’t think why because, in two days’ time, he was due to get on board a massive Emirates plane to fly first class to Australia. Anyway, we pulled up at the doors of Terminal 5 in good time and he practically chucked us out of the car, slinging our luggage on to a trolley before driving off with a jolly wave through the sunroof.
India and I stared at each other for a moment, unused to being left alone together and, to be honest, rather uncomfortable.
‘Let’s drop our bags and check in first and then head to the lounge?’ I said, not sure I sounded as excited as I should have, but determined to make an effort.
India nodded and we went to get rid of our bags. Heathrow was always busy at this time of year, everyone jetting off for last-minute sunshine, so we had to weave around a lot of luggage racks and pushchairs parked in awkward spots, not to mention massive suitcases wrapped in clingfilm. Then India spotted two very elegant representatives from the Voyage Premiere cruise line waiting behind a help desk and we dragged our cases gratefully over.
They were glamour personified with those slight French accents that always make people sound sexy and interesting, even if they are discussing the Guatemalan economy or washing-up liquid. In short, tight red suits and dinky little hats like saucers, all set off with silk scarves with nautical flags sprinkled all over them and tied in that careless, impossibly chic, way French women probably learn at primary school.
‘Welcome, Miss Fisher and Miss Fisher. Hmm, India and Alexandria; beautiful names. We are delighted to welcome you on the first stage of your exciting journey.’
I watched her fabulously manicured nails typing our details into her computer and waited, as I always did, for her to frown and say I couldn’t go because my passport photograph wasn’t attractive enough or something. However, all that happened was that she produced some glorious red stickers for our cases marked Voyage Premiere. And then she directed us to our private lounge where, as we had hoped, there was free champagne and comfortable chairs where India could nurse her hangover, flick through Vogue and text Jerry, and I could watch planes taking off and not crashing at all.
India had already been on a strenuous diet and exercise regime since setting the wedding date and I had fully intended to do the same thing, but it hadn’t quite worked out. But I had been on a diet and exercise regime for the last three days, which I thought was better than nothing. Although there hadn’t actually been much exercise, if I was honest, other than lugging my cases on and off the bed and repacking them. And not much diet either, other than not having some toast and marmalade yesterday morning because I was too excited. Oh well, we couldn’t all be a size ten like India, could we?
I had looked at the Voyage Premiere website on several occasions, of course, so I knew what to expect. The photographs of our ship, the Reine de France, showed a selection of exceptionally elegant couples with marvellous teeth who were always laughing and happy, whether they were tasting wine, eating exquisitely fine-tuned canapés in front of a perfect sunset or relaxing in the Jacuzzi while drinking cocktails. Was that even allowed? Alcohol in a Jacuzzi? Perhaps the clientele of the Reine de France were so classy and sophisticated that they didn’t get drunk and force each other’s heads underwater as most of the people I knew would have done.
In the private lounge we looked around, wondering which of the other people were going to be on the ship with us. None seemed quite glossy or elegant enough to fit in on board, but then, as India pointed out, in our jeans and T-shirts, neither did we.
‘That man over there,’ she hissed. ‘He looks the sort.’
The man in question was tall, quite good-looking and had a swoop of grey hair that made him look rather distinguished. He was with a two-dimensional woman in black who looked far too bad-tempered for the Reine de France. I couldn’t imagine her frolicking in a Jacuzzi with a Gin Sling.
Then there were a couple of exotic-looking women who were rocking the big eyebrows, white trousers and perma-tan look. They seemed to have cornered the market in gold jewellery and had six unruly children with them who had taken full advantage of the free refreshments and were busy building a tower with their empty cola bottles. Would they be taking six children on a cruise? Wouldn’t they prefer a fortnight on a beach? Or was I being mean?
Anyway, shortly after that one of the women noticed that the flight to Miami was boarding and they began rounding up the children and their numerous backpacks with a great deal of arguing and a couple of well-placed slaps. I guessed they were off to Disneyland and I was glad for them. Twelve days on a cruise ship with a load of old couples on Prozac and intravenous alcohol was no place for a kid in my opinion.
I commandeered their empty table, which overlooked the departure runway. India went to get us some champagne while I logged into my laptop and surreptitiously looked around to see if I could spot any more potential travellers heading for a cruise. An exceptionally nice-looking man was sitting on his own at the table next to us, typing rapidly into a laptop and occasionally staring vacantly into space. He was wearing a black polo shirt and chinos. Could he be coming on the ship with us? Did he have a thin, pretty wife with him who was perhaps having a manicure somewhere in one of the side rooms? Or maybe his girlfriend was
